Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Wyn

It's either really late at night, or very early in the morning when I just randomly wake up. Blinking, I glance at the window and notice it's still dark out, a thin sliver of moonlight shining in from a crack in the curtains.

What woke me?

Ugh , I'm still tired, so with a groan, I roll over onto the other side of the bed, grabbing a pillow and pulling it under my head. I'm lying there for thirty seconds maybe, trying to go back to sleep when I remember abruptly that Lucas is supposed to be in bed with me.

Adrenaline jolts me to full wakefulness and I rise up onto my palms to glance around the room. It's dark, but I can see that the bathroom door is open, and unless he's chillin' out in the bathtub, Lucas isn't in there. One quick look around the apartment reveals he's gone. Maybe he went outside for a minute?

Sitting up, I glance at the nightstand and notice his phone is missing, and his clothes that were on a pile on the floor are missing, too.

I push out a relieved breath, but even as that feeling washes over me, a little bit of fear takes root, too, because it means I'm alone. And vulnerable. Without Lucas here, will my stalker show up?

Excitement, fear, and everything in between rushes through me all at once. And, damn, my body is already humming with the possibility that the dark stranger might show up.

"You're really fucked in the head, Wyn," I whisper to myself as I climb out of bed to go to the bathroom. But as I pass the French doors, something catches my eye. A shadow shifting in the darkness. I'm assuming it's Lucas. He must have gone out to the patio to get some air or smoke or something.

I pause mid-step and turn toward the shadow. He's leaning against the open door frame wearing all black—black slacks, a black shirt that hugs his massive biceps, and a black mask that covers everything but his eyes.

I should be afraid. I don't know who this person is. I have my suspicions, but I don't actually know. And there's a chance I'm wrong. Like Lucas said, it could be anyone. "Lucas will be right back," I say.

The masked man chuckles under his breath and steps forward. It's so dark, all I can see is his silhouette. He pushes in on me and I take several steps back. If this is Gabriel, then I have to know. I have to find a way to pull that mask off and reveal whoever the fuck this is.

"You've had another guy in your bed," he growls in disapproval.

"Not by choice," I reply, though I immediately regret saying anything. I don't owe him an explanation for anything I do.

With two long strides, he's across the room, and he has me pushed up against the nightstand. I wish I could see more of his face, but even his eyes are hidden by the darkness. So I can't read his expression, but I can feel the tension rolling off him.

"You want him to fuck you," he says, the words gravely. It's not even a question. It's the same accusation Gabriel always made.

I hate Lucas and I generally don't fuck people I hate. He's hot, though. I can't deny that, even if I wanted to. Sometimes I imagine how his cock would feel stretching me. Or how his sun-kissed skin would taste on the tip of my tongue. But thinking about fucking him, and actually fucking him are two different things.

"I don't want anyone to fuck me," I lie. "I just want to be left alone."

He laughs under his breath and I cling to the sound of it. Do I recognize that laugh? I think I do, but I could also be imagining the familiarity. You'd think you'd know someone, even if they came to you in the darkness. Even if they disguised their voice. But without all the normal cues, it's so damn hard.

His hand darts out and he grabs my face, his fingertips digging into my jaw painfully. "You thought you could protect yourself from me."

My head shakes a little. I want to deny it, but the words are caught in my throat.

With his free hand, he reaches into his pocket and flicks a knife blade open. I'm wearing a tank top, no bra. He slides the blade under the thin strap, and yanks it upward, cutting it. Then he does the same to the other strap. My breasts hold the top up, but I bought it a size or two larger than normal, so with just a slight movement, it's going to fall and expose my breasts. To prevent that from happening, I take shallow breaths.

In the end, it doesn't matter though. Pulling my face up a fraction more, I wince as he uses the tip of the blade to cut the rest of the tank top off, exposing my top half to the cold night air. My nipples tighten as the sharp blade scrapes downward, sending a quick flash of heat straight to my core.

My eyes flutter closed and I suck in a breath. I don't fight him, because I'm not sure what he'll do. He'll slip up at some point, though. I know he will. He's obviously very clever, but he's still a guy. I just have to play along until an opportunity presents itself to run.

His masked face is so close, I can feel his breath on my neck. "Maybe I should just carve you up. Then there'll be no question that you're taken," he says with a low, sinister chuckle. The tip of his blade digs into my ribcage.

"Taken by who, though?" It takes literally every ounce of courage for me to ask that. "I don't even know who the fuck you are."

He laughs again. Still holding my face, he guides me to the bed and pushes me down. He's looming over me in seconds, his blade pressed to that sensitive area right between my breasts.

"You may not know my name," he says, the blade digging in. "But you know the pleasure I give you. You know the feeling of my cock inside you."

I wince and try to move my body away from the sharp pain of his knife, but there's nowhere for me to go. I'm completely surrounded by him. Gripping one breast, he holds me still as he carves something into my skin. There's a twinge of coldness, but no real pain, which is disappointing. It's probably due to the sharpness of the blade, but I find myself craving that sting.

It only takes a second, but when he's done, he lowers his head and licks the spot he just cut, a long, tortured moan coming from somewhere deep in his chest. He must have lifted his mask at some point without me noticing.

Then releasing me, he tugs my sweatpants and panties off with quick, jerky movements. Once I'm naked, he grabs my hips, his fingertips digging into my skin painfully.

I know I shouldn't want this, and I struggle to suppress the urge to open my thighs wider for him. Even if this is Gabriel, he doesn't have the right to just take whatever he wants, whenever he wants it.

His large body is hovering over mine, but with my arms free, I reach up and swipe at his face. I feel the softness of his mask, but I also catch skin, my blunt nails swiping across his jaw. That takes him by surprise, and he pulls back on instinct—not a ton, but enough for me to wriggle out from under him quickly.

I scramble off the end of the bed, standing by the window, in the darkness. Fear pumps through me because I know he's not going to let what jus

I watch as his shadow stalks toward me. Power. Confidence. Cruelty and malice. "Oh, you're going to be sorry you did that," he growls.

As he advances on me, he steps into a sliver of light, but he's already pulling his mask down over his face, covering his mouth. I get a quick glimpse of those eyes, but before I can even register the color, he's back in the shadows.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" I ask, desperate now. There's nowhere for me to run. The bathroom is several feet to my right—he'd get to me if I darted for it—and the front door is clear across the room.

"I've already answered that," he says, still moving forward slowly like I'm a rabbit in the forest and he hasn't tasted blood in a long, long time. I'm glad I can't see his face.

He must be able to see me a lot better than I can see him because when his hand darts out and grabs my throat, he doesn't miss. The air is instantly snatched from my lungs as he hauls me back over to the bed, and shoves me onto the mattress harshly.

An instant later, my wrists are tied over my head and he's using a piece of fabric to blindfold me. I fight against him, but it doesn't even seem to phase him. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say my fighting just seems to turn him on more. The sound of his breathing is quicker now, more frenzied like he's struggling to hold himself back.

My hands are tied to the headboard, but I thrash around and try to make as much noise as possible. My neighbors are like, eighty, and usually have their television turned up so loud, a nuclear blast could go off and they wouldn't fucking hear it, but it's worth a shot. I open my mouth and scream.

His large hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off my scream. "Ah, ah," he tsks. "You'll need to stay quiet. No one can save you from me, anyway. They'd die trying."

I hear the click of the lamp on my nightstand and a sliver of light creeps in through the bottom of my blindfold.

Then I feel the mattress dip under his weight, maybe just his knee, so he can lean over me. "Scream again," he says, removing his hand. "Do it and I'll fill your mouth with my cock. And I'll pump my load so far down your throat, you'll be choking on it."

The cold blade returns to my skin, skimming over my ribcage. Then he digs in. I can feel the pressure, and a little sting as he pulls it in one long line diagonally across my torso. I hiss, and tilt my head back, reveling in the pain. I'd never admit that though—that I get off on this—because that would give him power over me. Still, my God, warmth washes over me, like a beautiful release of tension.

His tongue follows the same path as the blade. "Fuck yes," he hisses. "I'm going to eat you the fuck up."

Only then do I realize, he's licking up my blood. Another sharp sting crosses in the other direction, and again, his warm mouth follows the path, drinking me in.

What kind of sick fuck wants to lap up my blood? This is seriously giving me serial killer vibes, and that pleasure from a second ago quickly shifts back to fear. Tonight has been a whole rollercoaster of emotions—confusion, anger, fear, pleasure... It's all a fucking

If this is Gabriel, then this is a side of him I never saw. He was always pretty vanilla in the bedroom. A quick fuck, and very little foreplay, if any at all. Most of the time, I'd have to finish myself in the bathroom after he fell asleep.

His soft mouth works down my body, biting, making me yelp, then back up again, over my breasts, sucking my beaded nipple into his mouth, sucking painfully hard. It builds a frenzy inside me, and I thrash my head, pulling at the knot that's securing my wrists to the headboard. It loosens, just a tiny bit, but not enough.

"I want to devour you," he whispers against my skin. "I want every fucking part of you."

"You're a fucking freak," I say, twisting my body.

He chuckles a little. He thinks this is funny. "You're not wrong," he says against my neck, then brings his teeth down to bite me, his blunt teeth sinking into the column of my throat.

Then I feel it, his hand is between my thighs, but more than that, it feels like the hilt of his knife—or what I pray is the hilt. The cold handle brushes over my clit, then between my pussy lips, before he pushes it inside me. I freeze, every muscle in my body going stiff.

But as he slowly starts stroking me from the inside, his mouth on my body, kissing my breasts, swirling his tongue around my nipple, my muscles start to relax, and my skin prickles, my body coming alive under his rough touch.

"You know what I think?" he says gruffly. "I think you're a fucking freak, too. I think we're more alike than you want to admit."

"No," I say, automatically denying it. I've been denying it to myself for so long, it's instinct.

"You don't think I've noticed?" His tongue finds the faint scars on my hip. "You don't think I've known, for a long time, that you crave pain?"

That statement makes my breath catch because I didn't think anyone knew. I've always been careful to keep the cuts shallow, so they heal quickly. I also use various creams to minimize the scarring. But even with all that, a couple of the cuts have left faint white lines behind. They're not noticeable, though, unless you know what you're looking for.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes. I don't like that this guy knows the most intimate part of me. That, more than anything, sends fear rushing through me. Because it means he's seen how broken I am, and it's humiliating.

"I fucking hate you," I spit out, one tear falling before I can stop it. Thankfully, it's absorbed by the blindfold, so he doesn't see it.

"It's okay, Pretty Thing," he whispers softly against my skin. "I hate me, too. We'll both just have to live with it."